


Though the Stars Walk Backwards

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bodyswap, Friendship, M/M, post-BotFA
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:38:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of the Five Armies, negotiations between the races quickly begin to deteriorate. The Valar, in their infinite wisdom, decide that now is the perfect time to swap Thranduil and Thorin's souls.</p><p>It goes about as well as you'd expect.</p><p>For Lina (dwimmerlaiks on tumblr).</p><p>(This fic is currently ON HIATUS until <em>Desolation of Smaug</em>. I am so sorry, dear readers, but rest assured this fic has <em>not</em> been abandoned!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It is seldom that the authors of great epics take up their quills and ink to write on the subject of aftermaths. A cause worth dying for, good pitted against evil, brave souls standing their ground against overwhelming odds – that, surely, is as worthy a subject as a writer will ever know. Such pride and gladness would be in author’s heart, if they were able to write about such things.

It is hardly unexpected, of course. Few want to hear the consequences of war, because war does not always have a clean end, with the victorious good claiming their well-earned prize, knowing peace and prosperity forever more. No one wishes to read of broken bones being reset, or of the stink of the healing tents, of or the screams of the dying, or of the messy, fraught negotiations that take place between allies who can barely stand to look at each other, let alone trust one another. It is a great pity, because sometimes what comes after is just as strange, as interesting, as what came before.

Not to mention twice as embarrassing.

 

 

‘We have made little progress,’ Dain said directly into Thorin’s ear in a whisper, ‘and you need rest, cousin. I can call a recess, if you like.’

Thorin shook his head a bare fraction, a shiver of pain causing one corner of his mouth to twitch downwards. It was the only indication he gave that his wounds were hurting him.

‘Laketown’s population cannot sustain itself on Mirkwood’s supplies for the winter,’ Balin was saying on Thorin’s left side, ‘it is simply not possible. Your numbers are wrong. You will have to farm on Erebor’s foothills if you want to survive.’ He paused, and added, ‘you cannot eat gold.’

Thorin’s vision was beginning to waver. Sweat broke out over his brow and prickled at his hairline.

Bard leant his elbows on the table, leaning his full weight forward. ‘You are incorrect, Master Dwarf,’ he said, staring unwaveringly at Balin, ‘and it is hardly your concern. I will see to Laketown’s people. Do not try to shift the conversation away from the exchange of the Arkenstone-‘

‘You will have your gold, boy,’ said Dain gruffly, ‘we Dwarves keep our words. But if we move away from long term plans for the moment, there are more pressing concerns to see to. We need to look at the next two weeks. Mirkwood’s soldiers are-‘

‘Greenwood.’

As one, they turned towards the voice’s source.

‘If we are referring to each other’s Kingdoms, I think it only polite to use their proper names,’ said the Elvenking in a voice like a cool, steady river. ‘I would not be so unkind as to call Erebor the Domain of Smaug, after all.’

Balin made a small, outraged noise in the back of his throat. Thorin’s head, which had been gently drifting towards the table, snapped up at this, locking gazes with the pale-eyed Elf sat opposite. It took a great deal of effort, and his throat all but closed up, so great was the pain.

‘I would ask _you_ ,’ Thorin sneered with as much energy and disgust as he could muster, ‘not to speak of such things in front of me and my kin.’

‘My point has been well-made, then,’ said Thranduil, ‘if we could please continue. Needless to say, there are many who need my attention, and too few hours in the day to see to them all.’

‘If you are so eager to leave, then by all means, _leave _,’ said Thorin, ‘your presence is not required here.’__

__‘To the contrary, it is. May I remind you many of my people lost their lives in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain? I would see to it that their sacrifice is not in vain.’_ _

__‘We did not ask for your help,’ said Thorin through clenched teeth, ‘we did not ask for you to come here. I know what happens when you ask an _Elf_ for help.’_ _

__‘And yet, you received it. I ask you, would you have defeated the hordes of Azog without the long bows and swift arrows of my Elves?’_ _

__‘Would you have come to our aid if you knew Azog was almost upon us? Or do you only offer help when you are _certain_ of your victory?’_ _

__Thranduil’s eyes flashed. Behind him, Legolas’ hand went to the sword at his side, only to be held in check by Tauriel. Bard retreated backwards, his fingers unconsciously twitching into the shape they would make to notch an arrow to his bow. On the other side of the table, Balin, Dwalin and Dain were mirroring their Elven counterparts – Dwalin had taken half a step forwards, to be halted by a small, minute gesture from Balin. Dain had tilted his body towards Thorin as though to defend him from a potential attack._ _

__The air was rife with tension and restrained violence. No one dared breathe, nor move, lest they set off a chain reaction in the two opposing sides. But daring is often found in the most surprising of places._ _

__‘Um,’ said a very small voice, ‘I think it’s time we break for tea, don’t you?’_ _

__Bilbo nearly flinched under the weight of the combined gazes of three Dwarves and two Elves, but he held firm. Thorin and Thranduil were still staring at each other across the table, fury etched across both of their stoic, blank faces, if you knew where to look for the clues._ _

__‘It’s getting late,’ Bilbo continued belligerently, eyes flicking fearfully from Thorin to Thranduil, ‘and I think we could all do with some supper and some rest.’_ _

__Dwalin gave the Hobbit an incredulous look and seemed to be on the cusp of asking Bilbo if his head wound had addled his mind. Legolas and Tauriel were peering at him with twin expressions of indignation. Balin simply shook his head._ _

__It was Bard, of all people, who came to Bilbo’s rescue._ _

__‘Yes, I think that’s a grand plan, don’t you? We’ll reconvene in the morning and discuss more on this…on the subject of…’_ _

__‘Provisions for the next two week,’ Bilbo supplied helpfully._ _

__‘Yes, thank you Master Hobbit,’ said Bard, rising from his chair and affecting an air of false cheer, ‘I’m sure we’ll make more progress tomorrow.’_ _

__They waited with bated breath to see if Bilbo’s non-sequitur would work. After a long, excruciating handful of seconds, Thorin and Thranduil looked away at exactly the same moment. Bilbo let out a breath._ _

__Thranduil stood fluidly from his seat, glanced at Bard in acknowledgement, and swept from the tent, Legolas and Tauriel turning to follow in his wake, though Legolas glared once more at Thorin before he left._ _

__‘ _Elves_ ,’ sighed Dain._ _

__Thorin muttered something under his breath in Khuzdûl, and Dwalin grunted his agreement. Thorin stood with considerably less grace than Thranduil, accepting no help as he struggled to stand. Unlike Thranduil, he didn’t bother to acknowledge Bard before he left._ _

__‘Let us take our Burglar’s suggestion,’ said Thorin once they were outside, ‘I have no doubt we’ll need our strength if we are to deal with these infuriating creatures again tomorrow.’_ _

__‘The cheek of him,’ growled Dwalin, ‘callin’ us _allies_.’_ _

__Thorin snorted his agreement and said, bitterly, ‘I will _never_ call him – or any of his kind - an ally ever again.’_ _

__Unbeknownst to Thorin, nearly the exact same words were being uttered by the Elvenking as he strode back to the Elven camp._ _

__‘I have lived for an Age,’ Thranduil was saying in the exact moment Thorin was proclaiming that they would never be allies, ‘and still not even I can understand a Dwarf. I hope I never will.’_ _

__And that, dear reader, is when the trouble truly began._ _


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin did not remember dozing off. His last memory was of sitting in his chair, discussing guard duty rosters with Dain and Balin, drinking watered down ale, grimacing at the taste and stubbornly attempting to stave off the sleep his body had craved for. As he lay in his cot, blinking into full wakefulness, he realised that he did not feel even the slightest bit groggy. In fact, he felt more awake than he had in days, and the mass of pain that had crisscrossed his chest since the battle had faded to a dull ache.

Strange. He did not usually heal this quickly.

He sat up, and the chink of chainmail and armour caused him to look down. There was nothing familiar to be found in the armour he was wearing. Hadn’t he dozed off in his father’s battle armour? He didn’t recognise the chest-plate at all. It was far too elaborate for Dwarven armour, covered with swirling, circular patterns that any Dwarf would be mortified to wear. For a few moments Thorin wondered if Kili and Fili had put him in an Elven chest-plate as a practical joke, but no – neither Kili nor Fili were in any fit state to be carrying out pranks at the moment, as grievously injured as both of them were. The pain in Thorin’s chest doubled at the thought.

He would have spent more time thinking of his nephews had he not been staring, wide-eyed, at his hands. Long, elegant fingers. Legs that were far too long, clad in soft leather boots. And what was this, falling over his shoulders – Thorin grasped at the strands, pulling it around to see it better, gaping open-mouthed at the gold strands caught between his fingertips. He tugged at it, hard, hoping it would simply fall away, but stinging pain flared over his hairline at his temple. 

His mind presented one solution to the puzzle. His body attempted to rid itself of the previous night’s dinner, and Thorin spent a good handful of minutes trying to repress his sudden bout of nausea.

No. _No_. He was dreaming. He had to be. This could not be happening. There was no earthly way that the body he currently inhabited was anything but his own stout Dwarven body. His thoughts came in stops and starts, trying to understand his situation and attempting to find some explanation. Was this magic? There was no other reasonable explanation. Thorin knew of no other force on Middle Earth that could place one soul in another’s body.

To make matters even worse, he realised he knew exactly whose armour he was wearing. Thorin’s mind immediately shuffled this revelation to one side. It was simply too horrifying a thought to contemplate, and he had enough to be getting on with as it was.

Thorin, with an overriding sense of calm that was barely keeping his sheer panic in check, attempted to rise from the cot. He stumbled as soon as he had his feet under him – blast, how one earth could these confounded Elves even _walk_? There was simply too much body for him to co-ordinate, and he had to reach out to steady himself on a nearby support post. Gandalf. He needed to see Gandalf. Loathe though he was to admit he had a problem to the wizard, Thorin knew he had little choice. With a destination and a purpose now firmly decided upon, Thorin regained some measure of calm.

His calm was to be short-lived. As soon as he stepped outside of the tent, he was almost deafened by voices.

‘Sun-sun. Morning. _Moooorn_ -ing! Westerly-wind, westerly-wind!’

‘My perch, my perch. My worm, my worm, my worm, go away!’

‘What,’ gasped Thorin, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the strange, jumbled-up sentences assaulting his ears. He lifted a hand to his head, trying to differentiate between the sound of birdsong in the background and the meaning that was somehow springing up unbidden in his mind, and found that he couldn’t.

‘Your Majesty?’ someone to his right asked in Sindarin.

Thorin, brow creased in irritation, turned to find Prince Legolas staring at him in concern. Instinctively, Thorin stepped back, on guard. It was strange to see something other than hostility on the young Elf’s face.

‘I am fine,’ rasped Thorin in a rusty approximation of Sindarin.

Legolas nodded, fine features carefully blank. Thorin did not have the patience to try and decipher his expression. At the very least, Legolas’ hail seemed to indicate that the Prince had no knowledge of what had occurred.

‘Where is Gan...where is Mithrandir?’ said Thorin.

A frown knitted Legolas’ brow briefly, as though Thorin had asked a very strange question. ‘I last saw the wizard over by the cooking fires in the camps of the Men.’

Thorin nodded, and started forwards stiffly, intensely aware of the strangeness of his limbs. After a few paces he said, ‘your presence is not needed.’

Legolas stopped and inclined his head, but did not move, and after an awkward pause Thorin grasped that he was likely waiting for a dismissal.

‘I will...I will meet you later, when we reconvene with Bard and the...Dwarves,’ Thorin attempted.

Blessedly, Legolas finally took his leave, but then _another_ Elf stopped Thorin before he had even taken half a step. 

‘Your Majesty!’

This time, it was the red-haired Elf – Tauriel, was it? – and there was a sword in her hand. She presented it to him without a word.

Thorin took it from her, though it felt wrong in his hands – it was far too long and far too thin, much like the body he was currently inhabiting. She apparently did not need any thanks, and Thorin was grateful. She merely gave a business-like bow and moved away.

Despite the strangeness of the sword at his waist, Thorin felt a great deal better for having some manner of weapon at his side as he strode through the Elven camps. He was acknowledged by every Elf he passed, and Thorin allowed himself a brief second or two of amusement - just imagine if they knew who they were really bowing to!

The ghostly ache in his chest had all but dissipated, and aside from a small, lingering pain in his right side, Thorin almost felt back to full health. It was a welcome change from the crippling injuries that dogged his every movement, but Thorin could hardly wait to be back in his broken and exhausted body because those were _his_ aches, and they were well-earned and well-deserved, to his mind.

A strange, niggling sensation had been tugging at his perception since he had first stepped out of his tent. Legolas had given him a rough indication of Gandalf’s location, but he was steadily becoming aware that he was unerringly striding in one direction. Every time he thought of Gandalf, a bright spark lit up in his mind’s eye, some strange sense turning him towards the wizard, whose presence seemed to be like a beacon in the night, completely unmissable. It was something that Thorin could begrudgingly admit was useful in his current situation.

Gandalf was, as promised, sat by the cooking fires, smoking his long pipe and staring into the middle distance. He looked up at Thorin’s approach, and let out a prompt and inevitable bark of laughter.

‘Goodness me,’ Gandalf said around his laughter, mouth issuing puffs of smoke here and here, ‘what on earth have you done, Master Dwarf?’

Thorin glared at him, in no mood to be laughed at. ‘I was hoping you would be able to tell me that,’ he said, ‘is this some trick of yours, wizard? If it is I demand you put it right _immediately_.’

‘Calm yourself, Thorin Oakenshield,’ Gandalf replied, still far too amused to take offence at Thorin’s demands of him, ‘this is no work of mine. Such things are beyond me.’

‘The Elves, then. This is their doing, or their King’s.’

‘No,’ said Gandalf, shaking his head, ‘neither Thranduil nor the Elves of Greenwood have the power to do this. The Lady of Light, perhaps, but not the Elvenking.’

‘Can you undo it?’

Gandalf raised his bushy brows and gave Thorin a frankly unimpressed look. ‘I have just stated that the swapping of souls is not in my power. I cannot help you, Thorin.’

‘Then you are of no use at all,’ snarled Thorin, his patience fraying.

‘To the contrary, I think I am, because you are asking all of the wrong questions. Something very important has not occurred to you.’

‘And what is that?’

‘If you are in Thrnaduil’s body, then where is Thranduil?’

 

 

Thranduil’s waking was not nearly as pleasant as Thorin’s. Elves do not, as a rule, sleep as mortals would, and their rest is fleeting and infrequent, shallow and full of strange dreams. They do not often need sleep, but the last few days had been taxing enough that even Thranduil had required a few moments of respite.

Thranduil opened his eyes, and he did not need the sight of strange armour or foreign limbs to tell him something was wrong. Fierce, unrelenting pain beat at his chest and stomach, overwhelming in its intensity and ridding his mind of any coherent thought. He forced himself to breathe through it in shallow gasps, grappling with the pain until he had some measure of control over the drumbeat of agony. It took a great deal of effort. 

Once some semblance of rationality had been restored to him, he found himself turning his head this way and that, straining to hear birdsong or to sense the presence of his kin. And where, where was the distant hush and ripple of the trees, that background echo of his kingdom that had been with him for as long as he could remember? The absence of this alone was enough to tell him that he was not in the right body. Not even illness, nor the most mortal of wounds could silence such a thing. A glance down at himself only confirmed his fears. Thick, bulky arms and even thicker legs, dark and coarse hair braided into unfamiliar forms, and weighty Dwarven clothing trimmed with fur.

The Valar had a very strange sense of humour, Thranduil thought with an enforced sense calm.

The flaps of the tent moved, and Thranduil raised his head to see Bilbo Baggins enter.

‘Good morning,’ said the Hobbit, taking a few steps into the tent and hovering awkwardly to one side. ‘I’m sorry for barging in – there’s no door to knock on, you see, and, well. It seemed rather silly to shout at you through the door flaps.’

The Hobbit attempted a smile, but he seemed too tired and too unsure of his welcome for the expression to come out as anything other than a grimace. Thranduil stared at him, but he was in fact not looking at Bilbo at all – his mind was racing with possibilities and solutions, desperately trying to find a way out of his current predicament.

When the silence had stretched out too long with no acknowledgement from Thranduil, Bilbo shifted uneasily on the spot, his miserable attempt at a smile slipping away, ducking his head and putting his hands behind his back.

‘Balin told me to tell you that we’re meeting again soon, and that you should eat something.’

Thranduil blinked, refocusing on Bilbo. In spite of the madness of his own situation, his sharp mind could not help but pick up on all the little details on Bilbo’s appearance, from his tattered clothing to his dirt-streaked face and the way he seemed so hesitant of his welcome in Thorin’s tent.

‘Right. Well, then. I’ll just, see you at the meeting, shall I? Right, you’ll probably need to...to... I’ll leave you alone.’

‘Thank you, Master Hobbit,’ Thorin managed to say, the voice that issued from his mouth strange to his ears. He had meant to stem the flow of Bilbo’s awkward stammering and alleviate some of the embarrassment, but for some strange reason his words caused deep hurt to flash over the Hobbit’s face before it was carefully covered up.

Thranduil filed the reaction away for future examination. For the present moment he was more concerned with getting to his feet. He would decide on a course of action once he had achieved that, at least.

He swung his short legs around, putting his feet on the ground and his hands on the edge of the bed to brace himself. With an almighty heave he lifted himself off of the bed, gritting his teeth against a fresh onslaught of pain. By all that was good, how had the Dwarf managed to sit through a five hour meeting when his torso was all but mincemeat? The Hobbit started forwards, unsure, hands fluttering hesitantly through the air but not touching Thranduil. Thranduil glanced at him, at a loss as to what response was required of him.

‘Your help is not needed, though I am grateful for it,’ he attempted, ‘I will take a few moments to collect myself and follow you to the gathering.’

Bilbo swallowed visibly, his mouth firmly downturned at the edges. He opened his mouth, closed it, turned away as if to go and turned back to Thranduil.

‘Don’t you think-‘ he started, but closed his mouth with a click. ‘Never mind – it can wait. I’ll meet you there.’

He left, and Thranduil was given a few precious minutes to assess the situation. If he was in Thorin Oakenshield’s body, he could only hope that his own body was not deteriorating somewhere, and that there had been an orderly swap of souls. Which meant that there was a Dwarf currently walking around in the guise of an Elvenking. It was a truly terrifying thought.

He could only hope that he could keep up this charade until he found Thorin. He could see little other choice – not even his own son would recognise him as he was now. No, he needed more information. He could not act without knowing the extent of the damage.

Thranduil started forwards, and nearly collapsed to his knees. He had been unconsciously expecting a longer stride, and his wounded body protested even at this slight movement. Grinding his teeth together, he lurched to his feet to stubbornly take another step, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. The outside air made him reel back and the brightness of the sun caused him to shade his eyes – was it really so bright to Dwarven sight? There was an odd hum tugging at the edges of his awareness and, curious, he focused on it, tilting his head to one side. Strange. It was like a half-heard song, pleasing to his senses, and a steady awareness of some sort of _presence_. The closest Thranduil could compare it to was the feeling of knowing there was someone in the next room over. With a jolt, he realised exactly what it was – he could hear the song of the Lonely Mountain.

Thorin’s friend interrupted Thranduil’s contemplation of this curious phenomenon.

‘Thorin?’ said Dwalin, leaning into Thranduil’s personal space, far too close even for one who had known Thorin as long as Dwalin had.

‘What is it?’ Thranduil said, and it took all of his self-control not to lean backwards. He had already suffered enough indignity for one day. He could not abide losing to ground to Dwarf on top of it.

Dwalin peered at him, and Thranduil found with a flare of irritation that he had to look up in order to look Dwalin in the eye.

‘How are your wounds this morning?’

‘I am well,’ said Thranduil stiffly.

Dwalin huffed. ‘Like hell you are,’ he said, but thankfully did not press the issue, ‘ready to kick some Elvish arse? Diplomatically speakin’, of course.’

Thranduil could feel himself bristling with indignation. If the Valar had played this little trick to teach him how to control his emotions around Dwarves, then he was clearly failing.

‘In a manner of speaking, yes,’ he said.

Dwalin chuckled and went to slap Thranduil’s back, but then thought better of it. Thranduil was infinitely grateful.

‘The sooner we start, the sooner we finish,’ Thranduil muttered to himself, taking the lead, Dwalin falling into step at his side.

 

 

Little had changed in the tent set aside for the meeting of the three races, merely which side of the table Thranduil was sat on. The Dwarven delegation was first to arrive, followed shortly by Bard, who took his assigned seat with no fanfare at all. The man looked tired, but not as tired as Bilbo, who took his own place to Balin’s left.

The seat opposite remained empty, and Thranduil tried – and failed – not to worry. It was bad enough that there were Dwarves flanking him on either side. He felt trapped, an uneasy prickling sensation crawling its way up his spine at the thought of Dwalin standing behind him, though he knew none of the Dwarves would harm him as long as he was wearing Thorin’s face.

At last, his son stepped through the tent flaps, followed by Tauriel, and-

Well. This was surely the strangest thing Thranduil had ever experienced in all of his long life. Seeing his body walking of its own accord was disturbing, and it was doing so with none of its usual grace. The sight of it taking a seat in the most ungainly fashion possible provided an answer to his rampant speculation.

Thorin Oakenshield stared back at him from across the table with Thranduil’s own blue eyes. They had one fleeting moment of horrified understanding before a one corner of Thorin’s mouth lifted up and Thranduil narrowed his eyes in response.

Thorin, for his own part, was struggling not to leap across the table, seize his own body by the lapels and demand that Thranduil put him right. At the very least he could say that he now had the strength to do so. The thought alone was very satisfying, but it led to another train of thought: no one else knew he was in Thranduil’s body. He could say almost anything he liked and they would all think it was Thranduil. Thorin tried – and failed - to repress a smirk. Thranduil must have caught the expression because he flicked his eyes over Thorin’s face, clearly wondering what Thorin was planning. Thorin carefully schooled his features.

It was a terrible situation for both of them, but that didn’t mean that Thorin couldn’t use it to his advantage.

‘If we could begin where we left off,’ said Bard, completely oblivious as the drama that was occurring on either side of him, ‘I think we were discussing provisions for the next two weeks.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Dain, ‘it is a pressing issue. Not all of...of _Greenwood_ ’s soldiers can pack up and leave immediately. I think we’re lookin’ at the majority of them staying for the next month, at least, with the wounded being moved last. Now, if-‘

‘If I might interrupt,’ said Thorin, attempting to affect some semblance of Thranduil’s usual tone, ‘I have something to say over yesterday’s matter of Laketown’s supplies for the winter. Bard,’ said Thorin, turning to the man, ‘I would like to offer you as much food as your people will need. More, even. Have a feast, if you like.’

Bard sent him a bewildered look, ‘that’s very generous of you,’ he started, but Thorin wasn’t finished yet.

‘If fact, we would not be so unfair as to supply one of our neighbours with food and not the other. Thr- _Thorin_ – why don’t you and your Dwarves take some of our grain? For no charge, of course.’

Dwalin and the others were staring at him as though he’d taken leave of his senses. Thorin couldn’t see Legolas or Tauriel , but he was willing to bet that they looked similarly perturbed, and Thranduil – Thranduil now looked like _he_ wanted nothing more than to lean across the table and strike Thorin.

‘We would not take it,’ Thranduil said through gritted teeth, ‘we Dwarves are too _proud_ to accept help from the likes of you. But I would match the Elvenking’s generosity, Bard – the matter of the gold should be settled immediately.’

Thorin’s badly-covered up grin slipped from his borrowed face. Don’t you dare, he thought, _don’t you dare._

‘As my...cousin has stated, there are more pressing problems to deal with than mere _gold_. Take what you like as your fourteenth share, Bard. It is of no concern to me.’

Bard’s bewildered expression shifted to outright incredulity at this, but that was nothing compared to the reaction of the Dwarves.

‘Are you out of your _mind_ ,’ hissed Dain into Thranduil’s ear, ‘we agreed that he’d take ordinary gold coin – we cannot allow him to pick and chose as he pleases!’

‘I hardly believe I am having to say this,’ said Balin on Thrandiul’s other side, ‘but Thorin, _stop_. There are things in the hoard that are far more important to us than they are to Bard, their value cannot even be _counted_ to our people-‘

‘I would speak to the King Under the Mountain _alone_ ,’ said Thorin suddenly, having to raise his voice to be heard over Dain and Balin’s furious, half-whispered urgings. 

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said Dwalin at once.

‘Your Majesty,’ said Tauriel from over Thorin’s left shoulder, ‘he cannot be trusted alone-‘

‘I did not ask for your opinion, Tauriel,’ said Thorin.

‘I...agree with the Elvenking. I would speak to him privately on this matter,’ said Thranduil, ‘leave us,’ he said to the Dwarves.

No one moved. Thranduil, finally at the end of his patience, all but snapped, ‘leave us. At _once_.’

‘You cannot command me,’ Dain reminded Thranduil with tested patience, ‘you are not my King. But I’ll leave you to it, for now, and just hope that you have a plan. I have no idea what you’re playing at, but we’ll be right outside the door if you need us. Come, Balin. You too, Dwalin.’

Bilbo, who had remained silent until then, flicked his eyes back and forth between Thranduil and Thorin. He seemed to be considering something – what, Thranduil didn’t know, and he didn’t care. He was only grateful when the Hobbit left without a single protest, straightening his jacket before he, too, stepped out of the tent.

Legolas and Tauriel did the same, but not before Legolas bent his head and quietly said, ‘we will be but a shout away if you have need of us, Your Majesty.’

The tent felt far too big for just the two of them, and too quiet by half. Thranduil and Thorin considered each other from their places.

‘Is this your doing?’ asked Thorin, if only to break the uneasy silence.

‘Do you truly think I would willingly place myself in the body of a Dwarf?’ replied Thranduil with a disparaging snort. ‘What advantage would that give me, if any at all?’

‘As we have just seen, you can give away all of my gold with a wave of your hand.’

‘Do not be stupid. I have no advantage over you at all – you can damage _my_ Kingdom just as much as I can damage yours.’

‘I know of no other in the camps that can command magic,’ Thorin persisted, ‘if not you, then who else? It certainly wasn’t Gandalf – I spoke to the wizard not half an hour ago.’

‘And I am sure that he informed you that I am not capable of such things. If I was, I would at least put myself in the body of a Dwarf that was _healthy_.’

‘Oh yes,’ grinned Thorin, and Thranduil twitched to see such a bold expression pass over his own face, ‘tell me, are you enjoying your new-found mortality?’

Thranduil said nothing.

‘You Elves don’t seem to feel much pain,’ Thorin went on, ‘I imagine if must be quite the experience for you.’

‘It is _fine_ ,’ said Thranduil stiffly, and Thorin laughed.

‘Alright then, I concede that this is not your doing. But this is clearly someone’s design, though I can’t understand why anyone would do this.’

‘I suspect the Valar are to blame,’ said Thranduil, ‘there is precedent. They have done this before.’

‘They have? When? I have no knowledge of this!’

‘Clearly. There is a story among my people, though only a handful of us know the full tale, and none would speak of it aloud.’

‘Well, what is it?’

‘If you would hold your patience a moment longer,’ Thranduil said, irritation rolling off of him in waves, ‘then I will tell you. It is...a difficult subject for me to speak of.’ 

Thorin looked like he was barely holding back from rolling his eyes.

‘There is a story of an Elf and Dwarf who could not see eye-to-eye. They almost came to blows on several occasions, and they each considered the other lower than dirt. The Valar saw fit to swap their souls, to teach them a lesson.’

‘A lesson,’ said Thorin flatly, ‘you have just described the relationship of every Dwarf and Elf in Middle Earth. Why would the Valar swap just these two, just to teach them a lesson?’

Thranduil lifted one shoulder in a shrug. ‘I do not know – this is not a tale of my weaving, need I remind you.’

‘This Dwarf and Elf, then, did they ever return to their rightful forms?’

‘They were stuck in each other’s bodies for quite some time,’ said Thranduil, and watched as Thorin’s face fell.

‘What a cruel thing to do,’ he said.

‘Do not look so grim,’ said Thranduil, ‘it does not suit my features.’

‘Do not look so prissy, it does not suit _mine_ ,’ Thorin snapped back.

Thorin all but spluttered with indignation. ‘I am not- I am not _pris_ \- no, I will not lower myself to childish squabbles.’

‘Of course. You think yourself above such things,’ said Thorin under his breath, and Thranduil pointedly ignored this.

‘The story had a happy ending. The two learnt their lesson – whatever it was – and were returned to their rightful bodies,’ he paused, and something must have carried into his tone, because Thorin raised a challenging eyebrow.

‘And?’ he prompted, ‘there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Wouldn’t make a very good story if it simply ended there.’

‘They...they _reportedly_ ,’ began Thranduil, as though every word were being forcibly drawn from him, ‘saw something good in each other during their time in each other’s bodies, because when they were put back, they-‘

‘Spit it out.’

‘Don’t be so vulgar.’ Thranduil tilted his head back and sat up straight, assuming as much dignity as his body would allow. ‘If you must know,’ he continued, ‘they became...lovers.’

Thranduil and Thorin blanched at exactly the same moment, twin expressions of disgust twisting their faces. They shared a fleeting second of mutual agreement.

‘Thank Mahal there’s no chance of that happening,’ Thorin managed to say once he’d regained control over his rebelling stomach. At this rate he would be lucky to keep any food down at all.

‘Indeed,’ said Thranduil, feeling surprisingly relieved that Thorin had been just as repulsed by the idea as he had been, ‘I think that is one thing we can both agree on.’

‘As loathe as I am to agree with you on anything – _yes_. There’s no chance of that. But I have no clue as to what _lesson_ we are being taught.’

‘Neither do I. But I think we have more pressing matters to attend to. We need to reach some manner of agreement over how we are to handle this. We must hope that it is not permanent, but assume that for the next few days it is. I suggest we keep it a secret.’

‘Agreed,’ said Thorin easily, ‘I would not suffer the embarrassment of my kin finding out.’

Thranduil inclined his head. ‘Neither would I. As for the negotiations...’

‘We will leave the matter of the gold, or anything of great importance until we are back in our rightful bodies,’ said Thorin quickly. ‘Anything else is immaterial for the time being, but the gold-‘

‘Yes,’ said Thranduil, ‘strangely, and against every instinct I have, I find myself agreeing with you again. As for anything else, we might want to suggest that our advisors argue on our behalf.’

‘I’m sure they wouldn’t mind at all,’ snorted Thorin, ‘considering what I’ve just put them through.’

‘Exactly. I say we call a recess and explain to them that we will no longer be negotiating.’

It was a marvel that they had gone a full minute without one insulting the other. Of course, it was bound not to last much longer – Thorin couldn’t resist sticking the knife in a little more.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said, smirking, ‘are you getting tired already? Wounds getting you down?’

Thranduil was apparently not as above childish squabbles as he had claimed.

‘Oh shut _up_ ,’ he said.

 

 

Neither Thranduil nor Thorin noticed the tent flaps shift and part. They would have thought it to be nothing more than a gust of wind, and even if they had glanced in the direction of the tent’s entrance, neither Dwarf nor Elf eyes would have seen anything remiss. But someone passed unseen from the tent into the outside world, treading so quietly that not even the sharp-eared Legolas heard him walk away.

Bilbo waited until he was safely tucked away behind another tent before he took off the ring. He ran a hand over his face and let out a shaky exhale, reeling from the conversation he had overheard. His quick mind was already beginning to form a plan of action – he had never been fond of confrontation, but if he had it his way, it wouldn’t be needed.


	3. Chapter 3

The negotiations continued uninterrupted for the rest of the afternoon, with Dwalin and Dain perfectly content to argue on Thranduil’s behalf. They had all but leapt at the idea when Thranduil had suggested it, their unanswered questions surely only held in check by their obvious respect for Thorin.

Thranduil himself was content – for the most part – to simply sit to one side and watch the proceedings. The wounds inflicted on his current body had become harder and harder to ignore as the day wore on, and Thranduil had doubted that he would have even been capable of coherently arguing for anything. Instead he set his mind to his current predicament, turning it over in his mind, though he would still occasionally turn an ear towards the negotiations whenever he heard something he disagreed with. Then he had to use all of his self-control to hold back the sharp words ready and waiting to be used – a tongue lashing the Dwarves sorely deserved. But it would not help matters. He and Thorin were now on a course of mutually assured destruction; for every instance that Thranduil found himself biting back caustic remarks, Thranduil saw Thorin do exactly the same, though the Dwarf’s clenched fists demonstrated that he was not as subtle in his stoicism.

Thranduil ached, too, to see his son look upon him with such contemptuous eyes. Legolas had re-entered the tent after Thranduil and Thorin’s little discussion to sit down alongside Tauriel, the two of them looking as unsure as Thranduil had seen them in many years. But it was Legolas’ eyes that had lingered the longest, searching for something in Thorin’s bearing that he apparently did not find, as he kept up his quick, darting observations throughout the rest of the day. Amusingly, Tauriel had taken to watching Legolas watch Thorin, her lips pursed in thought, and the slightest of frowns marring her brow. To anyone else, there would appear to be no expression on her beautiful face at all, but to Thranduil the confusion was as plain as day. 

As for the Hobbit, he had elected not to return to the afternoon’s negotiations. When prompted by Thorin, who ever-so-casually inquired after Bilbo’s disappearance, no explanation was given other than a shrug from Dwalin. Thranduil estimated that the Dwarves were wary of the Elvenking’s interest in Bilbo, and it caused a small flare of irritation for Thranduil. Ridiculous, really, to be so defensive when Thranduil had been the one to take in Bilbo after the Dwarves had cast him out. Such contradictory creatures. 

At last, they were granted a reprieve. Bard declared, with no small amount of cautious surprise, that they had made much progress, and that they could easily wrap up the day’s meeting two hours earlier than usual. Thranduil practically had to bite his tongue not to sigh in relief. The practicalities of food storage had hardly been the most interesting of topics.

They rose, as one, from their seats. Thranduil and Thorin’s gaze met one last time. Thorin’s glare was angrier than at any point previously in their meeting, and Thrnaduil met it with a frostiness that covered up his confusion. What had happened to elicit such emotion from Thorin? Thranduil could think of not a single instance in the last few hours that would have been inflammatory for the Dwarf, unless Thorin held some previously undemonstrated, deep-seated love for dried meats. Still, whatever it was, Thranduil met the fiery look with casual indifference, raising a brow and glancing to Legolas and Tauriel as if to say _don’t do anything too foolish, though I know it’s in your nature_.

Whether or not the message was received was of little concern to Thranduil. He was hoping that he could simply retire, alone, to Thorin’s tent, there to recover and regroup. But his hopes were immediately dashed when Dwalin drew him to one side after the meeting.

‘Balin won’t approve,’ said Dwalin lowly, keeping a careful eye on where his brother was gathering up his notes, ‘but do you want to see the boys? If we go now he won’t notice – we can just pretend we’re getting dinner or something. You can always see Oin later.’

It would seem his ordeal for the day was not entirely over. Thranduil groaned inwardly. He could hardly say no without arousing suspicion – if his guess was correct, then Dwalin was referring to Thorin’s nephews, and Thorin’s love of his sister-sons was well-known, even to Thranduil. He had witnessed Thorin’s protectiveness over the two of them during the Company’s captivity, and Thranduil knew the Dwarf would have gone to visit them even if he were on his last breath.

‘Of course,’ Thranduil said, though his own breath was coming in shorter and shorter gasps with every passing minute, and he would have liked nothing more than to shove away Dwalin and find the nearest bed, ‘need you even ask?’

 

 

To Thranduil’s surprise, Dwalin did not lead him to a shelter near Thorin’s own tent, but to the healing tents. Thranduil had not realised that Thorin’s heirs had been injured. One small, cruel part of him fervently wished that they had both been knocked out – it would save Thranduil the trouble of speaking to them.

The stench of the healing tent was enough to cause even Thranduil to flinch, even with Thorin’s dulled senses. The reek of blood and bodily fluids permeated this section of the camps, and Thranduil found it strange and unnerving to not sense the presences of the injured. He was not sure, in that moment, whether to be thankful for the loss of this ability or not – had he been in his normal body, he would have been able to sense who was the most likely to live and who was closest to death. He may not be able to sense the injured and the dying, but he could certainly hear them; a scream rent the air on the right, unacknowledged by Dwalin or Thranduil, and on their left Thranduil could clearly hear someone alternately sobbing and crying out in pain, and other groaning. As he strode past white tent after white tent in a mortal body, Thranduil found himself at a complete loss. How – how could any of the Free Folk stand not knowing if those they loved would survive the night? The press of mortal lives seemed to weigh down on him on all sides.

They came to a tent that was set apart from the others, and was noticeably less grubby in appearance, with two Dwarven guards standing to attention as Thranduil and Dwalin approached. Thranduil did not acknowledge them, slipping into the tent behind Dwalin, the Dwarf’s huge back momentarily blocking Thranduil’s sight of the inside of the tent. When Dwalin stepped aside, Thranduil found that his unkind wish had been granted.

Both Kili and Fili were clearly unconscious. Neither Dwarf stirred as Thranduil stepped closer, and Thranduil was struck by how small they both looked, diminished by their surroundings, the waning fire in the tent’s hearth casting their skins in a sickly-yellow glow. Heavy blankets lay over both of them, and Kili’s head was swathed in bandages. Fili had not fared much better, it would seem – the right side of his face was all but covered up with white padding. Thranduil, for one dizzy moment, thought that they were in the wrong tent. These could not possibly be the two bright souls - imbued with the foolishness of youth - that had held their heads high even in the midst of Thranduil’s Kingdom.

‘What is their prognosis?’ Thranduil said mechanically. The deepest wound on his chest was throbbing frightfully, and the smell of herbs and sickness mingled together was making his head swim.

‘I spoke to Oin before the meeting,’ said Dwalin. He came to stop next to Fili’s bed, his grizzled face turned to Thorin’s heir. Thranduil would have said that he looked almost _fond_ , had he not been concentrating on standing up and not swaying on the spot.

‘He said Fili might lose his eye,’ continued Dwalin.

The undercurrent of frustration that had been bubbling under the surface of Thranduil’s borrowed skin all day was coming to a head. For reasons unknown, he was struggling to think straight, and he felt almost...what was the word? _Lightheaded_ – yes, that was it. Mortal bodies, cursed Thranduil internally, struggling to get a hold on his senses and allowing himself to blink heavily in an effort to straighten his vision.

‘When will they...when will they wake?’

Dwalin shrugged, completely oblivious as to the internal struggle going on just two feet away. ‘No more news on that front, though Oin is hopeful.’

But Thranduil wasn’t listening anymore; he was too busy fainting clean away to hear any of Dwalin’s response.

 

 

Thorin had truly learnt the meaning of the word _patience_ for the remainder of the meeting. He had struggled to sit idly by while Thranduil’s progeny had argued on his behalf, and he was sure that his palms would bear more than a few fingernail marks when he had a chance to look at them. Bilbo’s absence had been troubling indeed; his fears were not alleviated by Dwalin’s less than helpful response. The Hobbit’s absence was conspicuous to Thorin, despite the fact that the rest of the meeting moved along fairly smoothly, with very few out-and-out disagreements. Thorin didn’t know whether or not to be disturbed by this sudden flowering of good will or merely glad that it meant that he could leave early.

But as they all prepared to leave, it occurred to him that he had been mentally preparing himself to see Fili and Kili. Such a thing was beyond him in his current state, of course, and the sudden knowledge that his nephews would be barred from him sent anger thudding through his heart. He glared at Thranduil as the Elvenking made to leave, channelling all of his anger into that single look. Thranduil glanced to Tauriel and Legolas meaningfully, but the implication was lost to Thorin, who was already turning away, his twin shadows following his every step, trying to devise some way that he could get into Kili and Fili’s tent without being seen.

Thranduil was likely having no trouble at all. If Thorin knew Dwalin – which he did, better than anyone aside from Balin – then Dwalin would have suggested they sneak away to see Kili and Fili, which meant that the damn Elf was probably in Kili and Fili’s tent even as Thorin was thinking about it. A jolt of realisation curbed some of Thorin’s anger. He suddenly aware that he had not at - any point - feared for the lives of his kin while Thranduil had been in his body. It would have been so easy for the Elf to simply take out a weapon and stab Dwalin, or Balin, or Bilbo, Thorin mused with a shudder of horror. Thranduil could have even attempted it only that morning, not yet knowing that Thorin could so easily do the same. He must, in some small, previously unknown part of himself, trust in Thranduil’s honour, if not in Thranduil himself. It was a distinctly disquieting thought

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he came back to himself only when he was in Thranduil’s tent. Legolas and Tauriel hovered, unsure, but Legolas could not hold back a moment longer now they had been given some measure of privacy.

‘What did you and the Dwarf speak of, father?’ he said in Sindarin, and Thorin had to scramble to keep up with the young Elf’s quick-fire words.

‘I’m sure you could tell me,’ said Thorin evenly, ‘you were eavesdropping, were you not?’

‘No, we were not,’ said Legolas immediately, although a glimmer of amusement passed over Tauriel’s face. So, they had been trying to overhear but had not heard anything. Good. Thorin would rather not be confronted by two angry Elves when he was in a body he was unused to fighting in.

‘Our exchange was short and to the point,’ Thorin said, and he almost flicked out one hand to emphasise his point, but he stopped himself at the last moment, resulting in a strange, aborted movement. Thranduil would surely not gesture so casually. The Elf hardly seemed to gesture much at all, come to think of it. Thorin was at once intensely aware of the body he inhabited, unsure as to how to stand and where to put his hands.

‘We disagreed...and then we agreed to let others argue for us on the minor points, at least. Why, do you dislike speaking at such length on behalf of your people?’ said Thorin archly, raising one eyebrow infinitesimally, and _this_ was an expression he was sure of. He had seen in many a time on Thranduil’s face.

It did the trick. ‘Not at all,’ Legolas said with a shake of his head, ‘I was merely-‘

‘Trying to understand your strategy,’ Tauriel said smoothly, ‘as it seems to be working. The negotiations have moved along more smoothly than at any other point today.’

Thorin eyed both of them. ‘My strategy,’ he said, making it up even as he spoke, ‘was to ensure that the negotiations were no longer stunted by the discussion of gold every five minutes.’

As he said this, Thorin was struck by the truth of it. They had not been getting anywhere at all these last few days, to the detriment of the day-to-day running of the camps. He tried not to let his surprise show.

There was a long, awkward pause, and Thorin, in a panic, thought, _what would Thranduil say in such a situation?_ then blanched internally when he found that he already knew.

‘Yes, we have made much progress,’ said Thorin, attempting not to speak through gritted teeth, ‘I am...pleased with your efforts, Legolas. You too, Tauriel.’

Surprise now flickered over both of the Elves’ faces.

‘Thank you, father,’ said Legolas, suddenly looking as young as Kili, which sent a pang through Thorin’s heart.

‘Thank you, your majesty,’ echoed Tauriel, dipping her head.

Thorin had just about had enough of all of it. He wanted them out, immediately, regardless of niceties, so that he no longer had to pretend to stand and speak as his enemy would.

‘I would be alone, to....think over today’s events,’ said Thorin, and Legolas straightened.

‘Of course. Will you visit the healing tents, later?’

‘Yes, I will,’ said Thorin, not really aware of what he was agreeing to.

‘Then we will take our leave,’ said Tauriel, bowing, and the two of them left.

As soon as Thorin was sure they were gone, he went to the bed and sat on it, sagging. He felt at a loss as to what to do. He no longer had to pretend, which was a relief, but he found himself mentally exhausted with all that had happened, and he wasn’t sure if he was capable of sleep in his current form. A creeping sense of loneliness stole over him. He felt, all at once, very far from his friends and his kin. He wished desperately for some manner of company. He even began to contemplate going outside, if only not to be alone with his own thoughts.

An Elf shook Thorin from his thoughts, shouting through the tent flaps.

‘You have a visitor, Your Majesty,’ said the Elf.  
‘Who is it?’

‘Mister Bilbo Baggins, sir,’ came the reply.

Thorin all but leapt up out of his seat, his shock giving way quickly to elation over seeing his friend. But then he paused and remembered his situation. Bilbo was here to see the Elvenking, not Thorin, and his mind raced with explanations as to why the Company’s Burglar might take it upon himself to visit Thranduil, of all people.

‘Let him enter,’ said Thorin aloud, unable to hold back from letting a troubled frown mar his face.

The flaps were pulled to one side, and a Hobbit entered. Thorin found himself looking down on Bilbo, which was not an unusual occurrence – Bilbo was shorter than him even when Thorin was in his own body, after all – but in this instance Thorin felt as though he were towering over the Hobbit, and he felt oddly off-balance.

Bilbo, for his own part, had to crane his neck back to look at Thorin. He sketched a bow, and a thrum of anger shot through Thorin’s veins. Bilbo should not be bowing so respectfully to the Elvenking. He tightened his hands behind his back. He longed to reach out, put a hand to Bilbo’s shoulder and say, _it’s me, Bilbo, now can you think up some brilliant plan to get us out of this?_ But no, he reminded himself, even if he was in his proper body, he would not have attempted so friendly a gesture. He and Bilbo had still yet to breech the subject of the Hobbit’s exile.

‘I apologise for my absence at today’s meeting,’ Bilbo was saying, and Thorin hastened to bring his attention back to their conversation. ‘I had to run an errand, you see.’

‘Your presence was missed, Master Hobbit,’ said Thorin, wincing at the forced formality.

Bilbo gave a funny little half smile and said, ‘oh, I’m sure it wasn’t. I have been helping much, to be honest.’

‘To the contrary,’ Thorin said, quietly, ‘you help a great deal. You have a greatly calming effect on the parties, and you always speak a great amount of sense, unlike some.’

Bilbo blinked. Bashful pleasure lightened the deep lines on his face caused by exhaustion. ‘You honour me with your words,’ he said.

Delight lifted Thorin’s heart at being able to brighten Bilbo’s expression, but it did not last long.

‘You truly do,’ Bilbo went on, ‘a humble Hobbit such as myself, being complimented by the King of the Great Greenwood!’ he chuckled, ‘they would scarcely believe it, back home. Actually, I’m quite sure they won’t believe it at all.’

Thorin’s heart sank, then contracted in fury. Was that all it took, to win Bilbo’s friendship? A few pleasant words from an Elf? Thorin struggled not to let any of his simmering resentment show.

‘I am sure you have done much on your journey that is worthy of praise,’ said Thorin in a near-growl. Fortunately, Bilbo did not seem to pick up on the change in tone.

‘Ah, well,’ said Bilbo, looking abashed, ‘that’s actually what I came here to speak to you about. I’m not sure how much you know of my part in the Company’s journey. I hope I don’t incite your anger with what I am about to say.’

Thorin frowned, and let Bilbo gather himself for what was to follow.

‘While the Company was under...well, shall we say they were under lock and key in your Kingdom-‘ another flared of temper from Thorin to hear Bilbo speak so casually of the Company’s imprisonment – ‘I was. I suppose you could say...’

Bilbo trailed off, almost trembling with nervousness.

‘Speak your piece, Master Hobbit,’ Thorin said with barely restrained anger.

‘I was roaming your halls unseen,’ Bilbo gulped, ‘and I partook of much of your food and wine while I did so. ‘

‘This is...news to me.’

‘And I would make it right!’ Bilbo added hurriedly.

There seemed to be a roaring in Thorin’s ears, narrowing his vision. He all but shook in anger.

‘I forfeited the right to any part of the treasure, but Balin was kind enough to let me have just one thing from his share. I would present it to you now, to make up for your hospitality. I beg of you, please accept this gift.’

And he drew from the pocket of his torn and tattered coat a shining silver necklace of pearls. Bilbo held it out, his expression one of such tentative hope that Thorin finally, _finally_ snapped.

‘What has an Elf done to deserve such a gift?’ Thorin snarled, ‘you would give away the only payment for your services rendered to the enemy of the Dwarves? Does the Elvenking’s opinion mean so much to you?’

His words had been flung out at breakneck speed, but just as quickly, Thorin realised what a foolish thing he had done. He had all but given away his situation. He had no clue as to how to put it right.

But he should not have worried so much.

‘I knew it was you,’ said Bilbo, grinning suddenly and brilliantly.

‘I-what?’ Thorin’s mind had all but ground to a halt. He gaped at Bilbo, unable to comprehend this reaction.

‘You’re Thorin, aren’t you?’ Bilbo continued.

‘No – I meant. I don’t understand.’

‘I suspected you were, but I thought I’d get you to admit it yourself,’ said Bilbo brightly, and Thorin noted absently that he was lovely in his victory.

‘You...you tricked me.’

‘Only a little,’ said Bilbo, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet and putting the necklace away. ‘You’re in a rather strange predicament, after all. I wanted to make absolutely sure that I had it right.’

‘But...how did you know? No one else has suspected a thing.’

Bilbo tapped the side of his nose. He looked more like himself than he had in weeks. ‘Burglar’s secret, that is. You’ll hear nothing from me on that front.’

Against all reasoning, Thorin felt admiration stir in his heart, all his sense of self-righteous indignation draining away. He couldn’t even bring himself to feel irritated that he had been tricked, not in the face of Bilbo’s soft smile.

‘So, how on earth have you gotten yourself into this?’ said Bilbo, ‘its rather...odd, looking at you and knowing you’re Thorin.’

‘If you think it’s odd just looking at me, try being in the body of an Elf you were sworn to hate,’ said Thorin.

‘I can’t imagine being in such a situation, no,’ Bilbo agreed.

Thorin groaned. ‘Don’t say such things aloud!’ he said, ‘we suspect the Valar are to blame, and if they are listening to every passing fancy that is voiced, then they might take it upon themselves to meddle once more.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Bilbo said, and looked around him as if speaking to unseen spirits, ‘I rescind that statement! I would not like to be swapped, thank you very much. I am perfectly content with being a Hobbit until the end of my days!’

Thorin couldn’t help but chuckle. ‘I think that should do it.’

Bilbo peered at him. ‘You said “we”,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You said, “we”,’ Bilbo repeated, ‘are you and Thranduil finding points to agree on, then?’

‘No, we are not,’ Thorin said firmly, ignoring the way Bilbo raised his brows in response, ‘the only thing we agreed on was that we _disagreed_ on so many points that it would be best not to be a part of the negotiations at all.’

Bilbo hummed in thought.

‘The Elf believes this is the work of the Valar. Apparently we are to learn some manner of lesson while we have been...displaced, as it were.’

‘And what is the lesson?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Thorin wearily. ‘I would welcome any insight that you have.’

‘I’m sure we can think of something,’ said Bilbo, ‘but in the meantime, what are you going to do about the practicalities?’

Thorin crossed to the bed and sat down. It was a relief not to have to pretend to be someone he was not in front of Bilbo. ‘What practicalities?’ he said.

‘You’re both going to have to fulfil each other’s duties,’ Bilbo pointed out, ‘and you can’t meet officially without all of your respective entourages following.’

‘Our duties?’ Come to think of it, hadn’t Legolas said something about the healing tents? Thorin groaned. ‘No. It is not possible. I know nothing of the healing arts. How on earth am I to see to Thranduil’s Elves?’

‘Not just the Elves.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Thranduil hasn’t been healing just the Elves,’ Bilbo explained patiently, ‘he’s been seeing to Bard’s men, too.’

This was yet more news to Thorin. He had not thought that Thranduil could bring himself to heal others outside of his own race.

‘But we’re getting ahead of ourselves,’ Bilbo said, ‘first of all, how are we going to get you two to meet without anyone noticing?’

‘I have some ideas,’ said Thorin with a small sigh. Rest would not be immediately forthcoming, it would seem, but he found he didn’t mind so much, anymore. His loneliness had vanished altogether. 

He had Bilbo now. His predicament did not seem so daunting in the Hobbit’s presence.

 

 


End file.
